


Under a Street Lamp

by CallousHeartz



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance, The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Ghoul’s thinking about Poison again, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 01:51:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19713874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallousHeartz/pseuds/CallousHeartz
Summary: their first kiss. nothing more, nothing less.





	Under a Street Lamp

**Author's Note:**

> the Enchanted Walkway is a headcanon i came up with, more on that here: https://neon-rat.tumblr.com/post/182799952199/the-enchanted-walkway  
> \- Soph xo

As a general rule, if you're looking for somewhere to let your guard down for the night - be young and a mess just like you are, but rarely get to feel with so many heavy responsibilities on your tail - Battery City's probably the worst place you could take yourself.

That rule covers most of it, anyway.  
But there are exceptions to every rule, and there's a little exception to this rule right by the border, where the dull city lights meet the Great Sandy Beyond. Almost. 

Those who wouldn't touch it with a barge-pole call it The Lobby.

And those who have?  
They call it the Enchanted Walkway. 

There's one thing about the Enchanted Walkway which both sides - those who disapprove, and those who store their hearts and souls there - agree on: it's where you go when you _should_ be in the Zones. When, in one way or another, you're a piece of the rebellion.

It's the key wedged tight between the cage itself and the world outside.

"I gotta say," Poison rakes a hand through his hair, blood-red strands snaking around every finger as he catches his own eye in the rearview mirror, "Think I fit in here a little better when I was blonde."

In the passenger seat, Ghoul moves close and slides an arm behind Poison, who leans back against him, pushing a hand into his spiky black hair to bring his face into the curve of his neck.

"Didn't know you ever were," Ghoul’s breath and chapped lips warm Poison’s skin as he murmurs right into it, "Sorta assumed you've been red like, since the day you were born," 

Poison drops his tattooed arm to rest around Ghoul's shoulders. He tugs him into his side, a smile on his lips; that subtle, needlessly enigmatic kind that Ghoul spends a lot of time thinking about these days. And he says,

"I'm red 'til the roots come through."

There's nothing even mildly mysterious about that sentence. Nothing at all. He's just stated the obvious - yeah, ok, the colour of his hair changes when he dyes it. That'd be clear as day if anyone else had said it. Yet, when it slips past Poison's lips, it's like he's finally cracked some ancient code. 

Ghoul could listen to him talk for hours on end. He wouldn't admit that - sounds so sappy it makes him feel a little sick. But it's not like that, not sappy. Well alright, maybe a tiny bit, but really he's just fascinated by the way Poison makes things seem. Like they're worth thinking about for a really long time until you notice something you wouldn't have before, had you taken them at face value. Even if face value's all they've got, in reality. And Poison doesn't ever make it sound overdone and ridiculous. It's effortless. It's casual. It's... Ghoul just really likes it.

Then Poison's leaning forward to fumble for the key in the glove compartment, and Ghoul's hand is still resting on his side, feeling the way the seam of his worn-out biker jacket shifts when he moves. It takes him a second to dig the thing out since it's buried under so much fast-accumulating bullshit. No one needs as many wrappers and scrappy notes and empty cigarette boxes as this gang has, but the thing is, all four of them rely on one of the others to throw it all away at some point. And, of course, because everyone just keeps relying and hoping, no one ever does it.

"Let's get out," Poison whispers. 

He smiles - subtly still, but it's got an undertone, like the pair are about to embark on some sort of spy mission. And Ghoul smiles back, because he gets that. He's been pretty bored recently. Nothing much has been happening, so just about _anything_ could feel like a spy mission right now. Sticking his hair gel in this morning felt like a spy mission. Drawing his own symbol up on the bathroom wall for the millionth time this afternoon felt like a spy mission, fucksake.  
That's kind of exaggerrating, but only just about.

Poison steps out of the car first. He always does - he's the leader of the gang. It'd probably feel weird to him if he didn't, Ghoul assumes. He's content just watching Poison walk out, head high and taking cautious note of his surroundings as usual. But then Poison offers him his hand, and he remembers he's leaving the car, too.

This isn't the first time he's held Poison's hand in public. But they haven't been doing it _that_ long, and it still barely feels real to Ghoul. He knows his grip's already tight, but he squeezes Poison's hand, just to be sure it's there. And Poison squeezes back, confirming it's there. And then Poison's slightly cold fingers slip between his, and Ghoul's _certain_ it's there, and he's also got this warm, hazy, sorta glowing ochre-gold feeling seeping through him like if he smiles any harder he might just explode there and then, but it's impossible to stop.

If you're someone who lives in Battery City - as in, deeper into the city, where everything's bleach white and smells a tad bleach white, too - the smell is what's gonna hit you first when you step foot in the Enchanted Walkway. For Ghoul and Poison, it's fair to say it's been quite a while since they've lived in the city. This whole place smells like any average bar or club out in the zones: sweat, piss, cheap booze, whatever those people are smoking in the corner, and something else you can't quite put your finger on, but it's pretty hard to ignore. 

It's not a great smell, but it's a smell that eventually reminds you of home. 

That's what matters.

"We wanna go anywhere in particular?" Poison asks as they stroll around, making sure to stay in the shadows. It's not like they really need to be watchful over here - there aren't gonna be dracs lurking behind the bins or outside the grimy tattoo shop - but in Battery City, you can never be too careful.

"We could..." Ghoul begins, but then he realises they're right under a gently flickering street lamp. And it suits Poison so, so well; standing there in all black, poised with the light clinging to the hair which frames his face and drips like a crimson waterful down his shoulders. A warm glow highlights the sharp line of his jaw and the tired shadows beneath his eyes and his _mouth_ \- every curve and indent in his lips drawn out as the corners quirk up.

He's watching Ghoul's dark eyes as they flit over him, and he sees the confidence bloom somewhere behind them. And Ghoul knows he sees it, because he's smiling. 

Ghoul speaks bluntly. When he says it, he says it. Sometimes he wishes he could wrap his words in that misty silver, secretive air like Poison does, but that's not how he does things.

So he clears his throat, looks Poison right in the eye, and says it.

"I really wanna kiss you.”

"Yeah?" Poison takes a step closer.  
The cool scent of his cheap cologne - the one Ghoul steals sometimes - sits in the air between them, and Ghoul takes a breath as if trying to pull every particle of it into his lungs.

"Yeah," He whispers.

Poison leans back against the street lamp, chill as the air. He's got Ghoul hooked on the look in his sharp eyes, inviting him closer. And he does come closer. 

Closer as Poison reaches out to him. 

Closer still as Poison places a hand on his cheek and draws his face so, so near to his, noses brushing at the tip and breath mixing as their eyes slip shut.

Closer than ever as Poison leans in, and then the world's been switched off.

It's soft at first. Careful, like there's glass between them; tissue-thin glass, fragile and brittle as ice. 

The glass doesn't last long.

Poison's hand has dropped to Ghoul's neck - his fingernails are digging in a bit, not enough to hurt, but enough for Ghoul to tell he still bites them. 

The kiss is strong by now. Poison's lips are firm and intense; they fall open just as Ghoul's do, and then Ghoul's mind is a million miles away. His thoughts get dizzy and disintegrate, turning to soft stardust and crushed flower petals which drift and settle in the pit of his skull.

Their eyes stay closed when their lips detach, easing softly apart from eachother, Poison’s stubble brushing Ghoul’s own. The world around them’s slowly, slowly falling back into place, phasing in and out. Ghoul wraps his arms around Poison’s waist and lowers his head to rest it between his neck and shoulder. The scent of desert lingers on the lapel of his leather jacket, a reminder that they should return soon. Poison props his jaw against Ghoul’s temple, holding him right there.

The thought which enters Ghoul’s mind next is the most sure and definite, the clearest he’s had in a while:

_I love him._


End file.
